


Wounded Patria

by Sweety_Mutant



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A little bit of violence, Angst, Character Death, Crossover, Gen, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, Implied Relationships, M/M, Mash-up, Spoilers, Unrequited Love, if you want to see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/pseuds/Sweety_Mutant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis should have known that watching this film with his fellow countries would trigger some old memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounded Patria

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, I just play with them and put them back like a good girl after
> 
> * this idea popped into my head and I had to write it before this fluffy bunny abandoned me. Anyway, I hope you'll like this silly little fic. I do not have a beta reader, so all the stupid mistakes are mine ^^

Francis had always loved his people. His children. He loved to see them live, even if the pain of their mortal condition was still the same after all these centuries.  
Sometimes, he saw himself as a fool. A fool for still caring, for not protecting himself enough… Non. He was the country of Love, and that meant something.  
So, when Alfred came bursting into his home one afternoon, telling him that his “awesome people in Hollywood” had made a “super cool movie” from a musical that told the tale of what some of his beloved people had done and live two centuries ago, some events that were still too fresh memories in his heart, he should have known.

  
Once he was seated in the cinema, Francis should have known that seeing this endless faith, pain and love on the screen would made him cry. Cry into England’s shoulder, who didn't know how to react to his friend's misery.  
The Musain… those young men… He could see them now. Not the actors, but the men he had known. The lights, the smoke and smells… This perfect blond hair, charismatic voice…. He could hear them sing, as clear as angel's voices. He would always hear his people sing.  
The cries of pains now, and all this blood… the kid was dead, and two centuries ago, Francis had thought he himself would die from the injustice… from what happened to all of the innocents, to France… He loathed to see his children tear themselves apart…  
He had dreamed of it. Of bloody tears in the streets. Of blond hair matted with blood, draped in a too red flag on a balcony…

  
At the end of the film, Francis was an emotional wreck, and Alfred, mouth full of popcorn, asked him what was the matter.  
Francis didn't answer. He hadn't even heard the question. Arthur gave him a worried look. He knew. By respect for his nemesis, he decided to glare sternly at America.  
That night, Francis felt awfully bad. He remembered Alfred making a comment about the likeness of Enjolras' and his hair. He had also said that Enjolras loved France as much as Francis loved himself. An ersatz, had joked the American with his usual decibels. And it had hurt Francis. More than he would ever show…

  
But what he hadn’t told anybody –except Arthur, but Arthur knew anything about him- was that he had been there, in June 1832. He had been on that lonely barricade. But him, the country of love, of art, of beauty… he had dyed his hair black in 1832. He was ruined, bruised by his people's despair and hunger. He had drank himself into oblivion. It was too painful…And then he had met him. Enjolras. Like Joan, the law student had been a fighter, a man who believed... A god fallen on earth. And Francis had spent months watching Apollo give his life and soul for him, without ever knowing that the hopelessly-in-love-with-him drunkard-failed-artist that ruined his meetings had been his beloved Patria in disguise.

  
Francis had wanted to believe then even though he knew that their revolution would fail. He felts it in his guts. History would not change in June. They would die. For nothing. History was not ready. And though it had hurt him like hell, his people were not ready. He had tried to tell them, to make them see the irony in everything. To make them realize the absurdity of History…But had the same time, had would have followed Enjolras. To the end of his mortal life. To watch him write an alternate History. For France. Francis would have been _his_ France. His very reason to live. He could have seen him as his boss… And so much more than his boss. Enjolras love for his country was a flame so bright and a human life was so short... Whom the gods love die young.

Francis had been a coward. He had drank too much. He had slept, tried to close his eyes, to protect his poor country's heart from his friends' death, as their blood soaked the streets of Paris. But he had awoken. And though he knew his physical wounds would heal, he had launched himself in an attempt to forget that he was non-human.  
He had felt the bullets enter his body has his muse had died beside him. “ Do you permit it?” I am France Enjolras. Do you permit you Patria to die with you? Even though I can’t…

  
He still felt the bullets two centuries after. As he cried himself to sleep, Francis clang to his belief that somewhere, like Joan, Enjolras would be granted a new life, in a world like those he had dreamed about, and maybe Francis would dye his hair black again, and Grantaire would come back, just for a stranger, even for a day… 

**Author's Note:**

> Fiiiin!
> 
> I hope you liked it, and don't forget to drop a comment if you want to say anything :3


End file.
